April 12: See, I don’t get up in the morning. I get up and it’s morning for me … but, alas, not for most. By this hour, everyone knows Kurt Vonnegut has died, and probably a good many of you have burst into the same somewhat surprising tears.
Ah, but the heart remembers. I have always maintained, it has a memory like a horse. A writer whose worked you have loved, whose sayings became part of your sayings … regrettably, time has its way. But those tears? That pain at realizing he is gone? The body remembers. busy busy busy. A flesh diary. So it goes.
So much more steadfast than the mind of daily life.
Oh, my dear Mr. Rosewater, bless , keep.
